


cabin fever

by theghostofjamespotter



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Accidental Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 15:38:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5591800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theghostofjamespotter/pseuds/theghostofjamespotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dude. You didn’t score a single goal.” He’s beaming, chin resting on Ransom’s thigh. “And you came in like, under five minutes.”</p><p>//</p><p>or, the forfeit fifa fic no one has asked for. just bros being bros and somehow accidentally hooking up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cabin fever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emmagrant01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrant01/gifts).



> sorry for this being late!! you wanted some accidental hook up r/h and that gave me a good excuse to finally write the forfeit fifa fic i've been wanting to do for ages. i'd meant for this to be longer and included more dumb challenges, but i unfortunately barely had time for what i've got here. i did my best, darling. so happy holidays, i hope you enjoy!!
> 
> if you don't know of it, forfeit fifa is a real thing. i've modified it for the purposes of this fic and also because i've never played fifa in my life, oops. [here's a video of a tiny boybander playing actual forfeit fifa and crying](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eIP1cc1Wj_Q). i blame that video in its entirety for the existence of this fic.
> 
> i also blame frank ocean's album _channel orange_. it made my brain do filthy things while writing this.

Winter settles on the Haus with a creak and a groan that emanates from its very bones. The ancient hardwoods seize, permanently cold to the touch. It’s mid-November and an eastern storm drops several feet of snow over the campus, leaving the Samwell Men’s Hockey team with little motivation to do...well, anything, really.

It’s wet outside, it’s cold everywhere, and by the fourth day, quite frankly, it’s boring.

Which is why when Holster comes up to the attic and asks, “Chel Challenge?” Ransom says “Yeah, sure,” instead of taking his third nap that afternoon.

The Chel Challenge started in their frog year after Holster spent a disturbing number of hours watching Forfeit FIFA videos on youtube. The way it’s supposed to work is this: when a player scores, the other player has to set down their controller and eat something (generally something disgusting or disgustingly spicy). They can’t pick their controller up until the entirety of it is consumed, giving their opponent extra time to score on them with only the computer as defense.

“Is it just eating stuff?” Ransom asked Holster when he first brought it up. “Because bro, I’ve seen you defile the six-second rule in too many different ways to count. That’s an unfair advantage and I refuse to let you beat me for once just because I have standards about what goes into my mouth.”

Holster frowned. “What if like, we modified the rules, then? Like, we’d have to run a lap around the dorm before we can pick up the controller.”

“Are you trying to blend workouts into video games? Jack would be proud.” Ransom chirped, mussing up Holster’s hair with his hand.

Holster flopped back onto his dorm bed, spread-eagle next to Ransom. “Okay, fine, my idea is dumb. Do you have anything better?”

“I don’t know. What if we just like, chose what the other person had to do?”

Holster sat up so fast that Ransom was worried the blood rush would make him pass out. “ _Dude_. That could work.” He considered it again before adding, “With some rules.”

Ransom’s stomach flipped over. “Like what?”

“Like...nothing you wouldn’t be able to do on any other day,” he explained.

“Seems fair.” Ransom breathed a sigh of relief.

“And you can’t have to leave the building to do it.”

“Definitely.” Ransom mulled it over. “And a time limit, too, like, nothing that couldn’t be done in the time it takes to play a game.”

“For sure.” Holster was getting excited about this idea. He looked positively childish, bouncing in his seat while he, presumably, ran through all the awful things he could make Ransom do during this game. He was stupidly cute, if you were into that kind of giant-with-the-face-of-an-actual-baby thing.

“Do you even own FIFA?” Ransom asked.

Holster smacked himself in the face with his palm. “I thought you would.”

“No way, bro. That shit’s popular in England or something.” Leave it to Holster to come up with the most absurd game possible and then forget the main component.

“Fuck.”

“I’ve got NHL?” Ransom offered.

Holster raised an eyebrow up at him. “Really, dude?”

The rant lurking beneath Holster’s expression was one Ransom had heard before. _Don’t you get enough of hockey on the ice, what’s the point in playing a hockey video game?_ “Look, it’s a thing in Canada, okay, it’s practically unavoidable.”

Holster shrugged. “Whatever. It’ll work. I’m still gonna kick your ass.”

“Bring it on.”

And thus the Chel Challenge (as Ransom renamed it, having to convince Holtzy that _yes, people fucking call it “the Chel,” in Ontario, fuck you_ ) was born.

They’d managed every so often to convince Shitty or Lardo to play a game with them. Jack was always down for a game of NHL, but once they tried to explain the Challenge rules to him, he couldn’t come up with anything other than workouts to make them do, and they stopped asking him to play. Bitty was practically allergic to video games, especially of the sport variety, but if there was beer involved, he’d stick around and watch on occasion. For the most part, it was still something that Ransom and Holster did on their own.

“Usual teams?” Ransom asks, and Holster nods, handing a controller to him. After constantly battling over which one of them would get to play as the Bruins, they made an agreement to start with a hometown battle when they played each other. The Maple Leafs versus the Sabres isn’t the most exciting match up, but it’s a mostly even fight.

Holster grins up at him, all toothy and eyes bright. “I’ve already made plans, Ransy. You better watch your net.”

Maybe it’s a slight case of cabin fever, but seeing Holster smile like that, lit up like a goddamn Christmas tree, it’s stirring some shit in Ransom’s stomach.

“Yeah, whatever,” he says, looking back to the screen. “I’ll watch mine, you watch yours.”

It’s a surprisingly intense first period. Despite spending days on end in the Haus, it only takes a single shot to the net that barely misses to get both boys into competition mode.

“Gonna have to do better than that, Holtzy.”

“Just fuckin’ watch me.”

Something happens too fast for Ransom to process and Holster has possession, which doesn’t worry Ransom until there’s a shot on net and Ransom’s finger slips. It’s a clean shot and Holster’s shit eating grin makes Ransom want to punch him or kiss him or maybe both. He taps pause.

“Alright, lay it on me.”

“Bro.” When Holster smiles like this, it’s so literally ear to ear that Ransom has a hard time believing he isn’t a real life fuckin’ anime character or something. It’s disgustingly endearing. No bro should be that cute, it’s an unfair advantage and a potential cause for some awkward chubs in the locker room. “You have to go do Bloody Mary in the bathroom.”

“No fuckin’ way.”

“Dude, you have to.”

“How did we not make a rule against bringing ghosts into this shit?”

Holster laughs. “It’s Bloody Mary, dude, people play it at middle school sleepovers. You’ll be fine.”

“You’re the worst, I want you to know that. From the bottom of my heart, you are a truly awful bro.”

Ransom heads downstairs for their bathroom and just as he reaches the second floor landing, Holster pops his head out at the top of the steps.

“YO, BITS,” he yells.

Down the hallway, Bitty’s door opens and he’s rubbing at his eyes, clearly having been in the middle of the nap that Ransom had decided to forgo earlier. “Did you say my name?” he asks Ransom.

“Holster did.”

“BITS, KEEP WATCH ON RANSOM, MAKE SURE HE DOES BLOODY MARY RIGHT,” Holster calls down from the attic. He turns to Ransom. “By the way, I’m about to go murder the Leafs.”

Bitty yawns. “Chel Challenge?”

Ransom nods. “Yeah. Let’s get this over with.”

He shuts himself in the bathroom, Bitty on the other side of the door. He takes several deep breaths in a row. This is fucking stupid. Ghosts aren’t real and the Haus definitely isn’t haunted, but like...if they were, they probably maybe might be haunting Ransom and he shouldn’t fuck with that, you know? Why does Holster have to be such a typical white dude, trying to mess with spirits and shit all the time, throwing Ransom right in the middle of it.

“You have to turn out the light,” Bitty says from the hallway.

“Goddamn it, Bits,” Ransom says, but he flips the light switch.

It’s still early, but winter daylight is short and there’s very little light coming in from the small bathroom window. A minute passes before his eyes adjust. Ransom stares himself down in the mirror, tries to ignore the sweat building on his hairline in his reflection.

“You got this,” he tells himself, and it’s almost convincing.

He counts to three in his head and says to the mirror: “Bloody Mary.”

The room stays silent, unmoving.

A breath. “Bloody Mary.”

The hair in the back of his neck prickles. A draft passes under the door, over his feet and they’re like ice. His breaths come in shaky, but there’s just one more left and Holster is probably destroying his team while he’s standing here, so he closes his eyes and says it one last time.

“Bloody Mary.”

There’s a pair of hands, one on either side of his hips, and they squeeze down on his asscheeks. His eyes fly open, his hands frantically grab at the air around him and there’s no one there. He’s still alone in the bathroom, but someone _definitely_ just grabbed his ass and he screams, ripping the door open and sprinting past Bitty to get back to the attic.

“How the fuck did you do that?” Ransom demands from Holster.

“Do what, score three points on you while you gone?”

“Who grabbed my ass, Holtzy?”

“Someone grabbed your ass?”

“HOLSTER, YOU KNOW THERE ARE GHOSTS HERE, WHY DO YOU INSIST ON GETTING MY ASS HAUNTED?”

Holster is biting down on his bottom lip, hardly stifling a laugh. “Literally, your ass is what’s getting haunted.”

“Fuck you.” Ransom collapses next to Holster. “I’m gonna get you back, bro. Payback’s a bitch.”

“Yeah, okay. Tell that to your four-zero deficit, dude.”

“Christ almighty.”

Ransom grabs his controller and immediately has to defend his goal from Holster’s aggressive offense. By a miracle, he gets possession. Holster on the turn over. Back to Ransom. The attic is tense, the clicking of the controllers somehow louder than the game itself.

Ransom makes a beautiful pass and casually slips the puck in from around the back of the net. Holster watches the replay, breathes out slow through his nostrils.

“It’s payback time,” Ransom laughs.

“Bro, you can’t get me as good as I got you.” Holster seems pretty self-assured and Ransom is loathe to admit it, but he’s got a point. Coming up with something that is both difficult and probably embarrassing for Holster is difficult and Ransom’s mostly shooting blanks.

Except. Well. Maybe...

“Fine, okay. You -” Recklessness hits Ransom like a tidal wave and he rides it out. “You have to make me come.”

Holster cocks an eyebrow. “I have to what now?”

A slow grin crawls over Ransom’s face. “You have to make me come, bro.”

“That’s not -”

“It’s totally within the rules! You don’t have to go anywhere and it can be completed within the time limit of the game.”

It’s not even like Ransom is particularly horny at this moment in time, but once the idea hits him, something tells him he has to follow through and it’s not like he’s coming up with better ideas. Ransom knows Holster’s into dudes and Holster knows the same is true for Ransom. They’d never done anything beyond a one-off drunken make out sesh at a kegster last year that they never mentioned again, but it’s not like Ransom hadn’t thought about it. Possibly jerked off to it a couple of times. More than once, if he’s being honest.

“Yeah, but that’s like, only if you’re into it. I’m not gonna play with your limp dick so you can win the Chel Challenge.”

Ransom studies Holster’s poor, clueless face. He works the saliva in his mouth around, tries to keep it from drying out too much. “Dude, trust me. I’d be into it.”

“What? Really?”

He shrugs. “You’re a hot dude, I like hot dudes.”

It takes Holster a moment to process what Ransom just said, as if he’s not sure which part to react to first. Ransom hopes he doesn’t think too much about it, or he’ll start questioning exactly how often Ransom had considered the possibility of hooking up with Holster, and that is a conversation he’d rather not delve into.

“Fine.” Holster shimmies down the bed until he’s on his knees on the attic floor. “But let it be known that I’m only accepting this challenge because I have total faith in my blowjob skills.”

“Noted.” Ransom watches Holster crawl across the floor until he’s solidly between Ransom’s legs and that shouldn’t be as hot as he finds it, but he can still feel a surge of heat go straight to his groin. His efforts to keep his mouth from drying go fruitless.

“Dude, shorts off before you unpause. The challenge is just to make you come, not to undress you, too.”

Ransom’s dried up tongue protests against actually speaking, so he shucks off his basketball shorts and boxers in one go, wordlessly.

“Were you sporting a halfie this whole time?” Holster asks, and shit, Ransom’s dick is ahead of the game here.

“Shut up, dude, no,” Ransom says. “Little Justin just knows what’s coming.”

“Keep calling your dick ‘Little Justin,’ and I’m never playing NHL with you again.”

Ransom picks up his controller and tries to ignore that Holster’s head is between his knees. “Whatever, dude. I’m unpausing.”

He barely taps the button and Holster’s lips are around his dick and _holy Christ_. A couple quick bobs and Ransom’s at full mast and Holster is still taking an impressive amount of him into his mouth. Holster moves up and down his full length, not even bothering to pace himself or build up to a decent speed.

And Ransom is super into it.

Holster is incredibly liberal with his spit and it’s fucking filthy how wet Ransom’s cock is, how noisy Holster is pulling off of it. He dives back in, wrapping his fingers around the base and swallowing Ransom the rest of the way down. A small groan breaks in the back of Ransom’s throat, and he briefly remembers that he’s supposed to be using this as an opportunity to kick Holtzy’s ass in NHL.

He peels his eyes off Holster and focuses on the game. His fingers shake around the controller and he misses a pass. Holster pops off the head of his dick and he misses a shot. When he sucks him back down, he runs his tongue flat on the underside of Ransom’s dick, and yeah okay, Ransom absolutely can’t focus when Holster is doing _that._

It only takes a couple of minutes before Ransom thinks he could come if he wanted to, and holy shit that’s embarrassing and he has to will himself to rein it in. Holster hasn’t slowed his pace, determined to work this orgasm out of Ransom before he loses any significant points, but Ransom can’t manage to score on him. The fucking computer is kicking his ass because Holster is better with his mouth than Ransom could have ever dreamed.

Ransom absolutely did not think this through.

Holster suddenly changes pace, drags himself up Ransom agonizingly slow until he’s left pulling only his tongue off the head. He swipes it through Ransom’s slit before resuming speed. Ransom’s hips buck and he’s really not going to last long.

He drops the controller into one hand and the other finds Holster’s hair. He doesn’t dig in, just runs fingers through the soft white-gold strands. Holster hums at the touch and it vibrates against Ransom in the best way, the tugging under his navel building, and he has to refrain from fucking himself up into Holster’s throat.

The edges of his vision blur. Holster unexpectedly takes his balls into his mouth, his wrist flicking up over his sloppy wet cock, and the edge is right there when Holster looks up into his eyes.

“Fucking _fuck_ , ‘m gonna-” he whines and he’s spilling over Holster’s fist. Holster works him through, slowing down through both spurts of come until the aftershocks have calmed.

It’s like someone is sitting on Ransom’s chest, the ghost of Holster’s lips on him hanging between them. He closes his eyes, tries to readjust from his post-orgasm haze. His breaths come in heavy and hard and when he opens his eyes, Holster is giving him the most self-satisfied smirk.

“Dude. You didn’t score a single goal.” He’s beaming, chin resting on Ransom’s thigh. “And you came in like, under five minutes.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’m just saying, if that was some kind of masterplan to win the Chel Challenge, it fuckin’ sucked, bro.”

“Just take your controller,” Ransom says, sliding his shorts back up his thighs. He’s gross and sticky, but he’ll deal with that later. He’s still losing by a three point margin and somehow that’s more important.

His movements are slowed, though. His defense is sloppy, lethargic and his fingers refuse to cooperate. Holsters gains possession of the puck and Ransom’s fingers are like lead and that easily, Holster has Ransom under his thumb. Five-to-fucking-one.

Ransom flops backward and groans, low and rumbling all the way down to his diaphragm. “Alright, do your worst,” he says, not even looking at Holster and hoping that they’re at least done with ghost shit for the evening.

“Fair’s fair, bro.”

Ransom opens one eye to look at Holster, who is already tugging at the hem of his own basketball shorts.

“Wait, really?” Ransom asks skeptically.

Holster eyes Ransom, his jaw lax, so that his mouth hangs open, and it sends a shiver over Ransom’s spine.

“I definitely have more restraint than you, bro,” he chirps. “And I know that you can count the number of dicks that’ve been in your mouth on one hand, so like, I’ll get a good amount of time with the puck.”

For the record, Ransom has had exactly six dicks in his mouth, and not a single one of them left unsatisfied. So Holster is, as usual, full of shit. But now it’s a matter of personal pride, not just a Chel Challenge.

“Oh, you’re fucking _on_ ,” Ransom says, full of determination. To further prove his point, he leans over Holster’s lap, grabs a fistful of Holster’s shorts in both hands, and tugs them down while he moves to his knees. Holster’s cock is already hard, bounces off his stomach, a small dribble of precome dripping onto his teeshirt.

“And you gave me shit about a halfsie,” Ransom says, shaking his head.

“I just fucking blew you, bro, okay, I’m allowed to be hard after that.”

Ransom smiles between Holster’s knees. “Yeah, alright. I’m pretty hot, I’ll give you that.”

Holster doesn’t even look at him. “Unpausing,” he says and shit right yeah, this is part of a game; there’s an actual goal here, it’s not just a hook up. The thought leaves a weird taste on Ransom’s tongue.

He takes Holster’s dick into his hand, gives it a few experimental tugs. A small hum of approval comes from Holster, who is still focused on the tv screen.

It’s harder for Ransom to go straight into sex mode. Holster probably fuckin’ counted on that. He works his hand in circular movements around the shaft, working up enough spit to coat his mouth the best he can. He builds up speed with his hand, alternating pressure with each stroke.

Holster doesn’t react. He scores a goal.

“Really?” Ransom whines.

Holster looks down at Ransom’s face. “Gonna have to do better, bro.”

Okay, well. Fine.

Ransom gets his mouth on Holster and realizes pretty instantly that there’s no way he’s taking all of him at once. He chokes a little, drooling spit over Holster’s whole length and it pools on his fist. Holster doesn’t even blink. Using the extra spit to lube up his palm, Ransom flicks his wrist, working over what he can’t swallow.

If this were his own dick, Ransom would probably be fighting the other person off of him, wanting to draw things out and avoid things ending too quickly for either of them to enjoy. Holster, however, is immovable. He’s hard, sure, and every so often, his cock twitches under Ransom’s touch, but for the most part, Holster is actually focused on the fucking video game and that shouldn’t make Ransom feel insecure in his blowjob skills, but like. Damn, dude.

When it was Holster’s mouth on Ransom, he hadn’t realized how good it would feel. He hadn’t thought about the actuality of Holster blowing him until it was happening. Holster, on the other hand, had the advantage here. He’d already sucked Ransom off, had time to prepare himself for the possibility of Ransom doing the same. His nerves were sealed with all of the potential outcomes already.

What Ransom needs to do is surprise him.

He pulls off Holster’s cock, nuzzles his head down a little further until he’s got a wide expanse of Holster’s thigh in front of him. Using more lips than anything else, he kisses the inside of Holster’s thigh. He tongues at the skin, pulls up a small patch between his lips and lets it snap back into place.

Holster stops breathing.

That’s interesting.

Ransom keeps his hand on Holster, but slows his movements. He tugs up on him without any urgency, trailing more kisses along Holster’s thighs and up over his hips. A low hiss falls from between Holster’s teeth.

Someone scores in the game, the cheers from the screen rolling up over Ransom. He doesn’t flinch. He nuzzles his head down the V of Holster’s hips and Holster slides down further on the bed to accommodate him. Ransom fits himself right where the inside of Holster’s thigh meets his hip, his hand lazy on Holster’s cock on one side of his face, Holster’s thigh tense on the other. The heat of Holster’s groin warms Ransom’s lips and he mouths at the sensitive intersection of skin.

In their frog year, Ransom learned exactly how ticklish Holster is and nearly ended up with a black eye in the process. Suffice to say, it’s a lot.

This is different, but somehow the same. Holster is squirming underneath Ransom’s mouth, doing his best to wriggle out of the way of Ransom’s tongue. At the same time, he’s struggling to say Ransom’s name, variations of “ _Rah- Rah - Ran_ ” and “ _Jus...Just..._ ” dying in low half-groans.

He’s still got his eyes on the tv and the controller in both of his hands, though, and that’s fucking frustrating.

“Pause the game,” Ransom tells him.

“What?” Holster glances down at his lap.

“Pause the game and take your shirt off.”

His eyes look a little foggy, but Holster grins down at Ransom. “Whatever you think will help you, bro.”

While Holster does the same, Ransom removes his own shirt. He moves back toward the bed, reconsiders, and takes off his own shorts before settling beside Holster. The other boy is eyeing him, taking in the fact that he’s already hard again, and Ransom prepares himself for the chirp that never comes. Instead, Holster takes the controller back into his hands.

“Unpausing,” he says, and maybe Ransom is projecting, but the word comes out like he’d only just managed to unclench his jaw.

Switching tacks, Ransom’s hands stay at his sides. Blatantly ignoring Holster’s cock, he rubs his bare chest against Holster, breathes hot against his neck. He teases with his breath, gets close enough to kiss Holster’s neck, his jaw, his ear, and pulls away before making contact, moving on to the next body part. Each almost-kiss ends with a tight intake of air from Holster. It almost feels like his whole body is vibrating, ready for when Rans finally makes his move.

Ransom eventually relents. He scoops Holster’s earlobe into his mouth using his tongue and plays with it between his teeth.

“Shit - shit - _shit,_ ” Holster whines. Across the room, booing comes through the tv speakers.

Ransom keeps Holster like that, plays with different parts of Holster in his mouth, nothing below the neck, still refusing to touch him with anything that isn’t his lips or his tongue. He nips at Holster’s jaw, kisses from his cheeks up into his hairline, tongues at the cup of his ear. Arousal builds in Holster, until Ransom has him writhing, his hips fucking up into the air, desperate to relieve the pressure in his swollen cock.

Doing his best to not block Holster’s view of the tv (something Ransom was sure he would call out as cheating), Ransom kisses the corner of Holster’s mouth. He sucks on his bottom lip, pulls it down and releases. There’s a sense of satisfaction in watching Holster’s lip swell, how it doesn’t quite go back into place after Ransom is done with it.

“Ransom,” Holster says, his voice small and far away.

“Mhm? Am I in your way, bro?” Ransom pulls back, gives Holster a clear view of the tv.

“ _Ransom_ ,” he says again, like he’s trying to keep himself from begging, thrusting his hips shallowly upward.

“Oh.” Ransom smiles, beside himself at how needy Holster is already.

He wraps his hand around Holster’s neck and plants kisses on the other side. He drags his fingers down Holster’s chest, rubs small circles over his nipples until Holster is whining. Holster’s abs tense under Ransom’s hands, and he pulls away from necking Holster to watch his knuckles roll over each individual muscle.

There’s a split second where Ransom imagines rubbing off onto Holster’s abs, coming on them, letting it pool in the defined valleys of his stomach, then licking him clean. He shudders against Holster, hoping that maybe when he isn’t trying to doing this soft-and-sweet thing, he could bring it up for a round two. If Holster would be into a round two, that is.

When he gets his hand on Holster’s cock, it’s still wet from before. He jerks Holster as slowly as he thinks he can manage. There’s kissing, lots of kissing, anywhere Ransom can find a patch of skin that isn’t already burned red by him. He’s not exactly sure when Holster set down the controller, but he’s distinctly aware of Holster’s hands on him, tugging him closer, pulling Ransom into his lap.

Straddling Holster like this, his own cock brushes up against the hand of his that’s preoccupied with a lazy handjob. He pauses, eliciting a groan of protest from Holster, and fits both of their cocks together in his palm. It isn’t pretty and he ends up needing both hands to get enough pressure of both of them, but Holster’s hips jerk forward, and _holy shit_ , yeah, this is gonna work for him.

“Good?” he asks, just to be sure; Holster is biting down so hard on his bottom lip that Ransom is a little concerned. But Holster nods and Ransom takes that as a good thing.

He starts off gentle, moving his hands only a little and mostly fucking his own cock over Holster’s. The friction is different, but nice, and the pressure from his fingers is just enough to stave off his inevitable second orgasm. Holster is sweating underneath him.

Once he gets a rhythm going, he dips his head back down, resumes work on Holster’s neck. It’s like a dam inside of Holster breaks. His whole body shaking, he joins Ransom in fucking up into his hand, rough against Ransom’s length. A string of only half-said obscenities fall out of his mouth. Ransom is still slow in his movements, never letting Holster have quite enough.

Ransom presses his forehead against Holster’s.

“More?” he asks.

Holster regains uses of his words for the first time. “Ransom, _please_ ,” he begs, and that’s all the permission Ransom needs. He tightens his grip, picks up speed in a steady exponential, and Holster can’t shut up, can’t keep still, and it’s a miracle his cock hasn’t slipped from Ransom’s fists.

It should feel wrong, Ransom thinks, seeing Holster broken down like this. It doesn’t, but maybe it should. It’s mostly just super fucking hot.

“Holster,” he breathes onto his face, warm and flinging bits of Holster’s sweat back up onto his own cheek. Holster whines and Ransom knows he’s close, has woken up in the middle of the night to Holster going solo enough times to know what this exact moan means. “ _Adam_ ,” he says, and presses their opens mouths together.

Holster comes with a shudder and a shout, animalistic and primal and pornographic, and it’s enough to push Ransom over the edge for a second time.

He doesn’t open his eyes for what feels like an hour. He stays straddled over Holster, their foreheads welded together with sweat, until he thinks the burning in his thighs might actually kill him. There’s come all over both of them, coating Ransom’s hands, his abs, his thighs.

Carefully, he stands up. He’s a little wobbly on his feet, but he manages to find a teeshirt and wipe himself off enough that he doesn’t feel sticky. He goes to toss the shirt to Holster, but decides instead to make his way back to the bed, sit up next to Holster, and clean him off. Holster hums, laying back with his eyes closed, a soft smile on his lips.

“Fuck, bro. I should’ve known you were into sappy shit,” Ransom chirps, tossing the teeshirt away, having gotten most of the come out of Holster’s happy trail.

“I like to be taken care of,” Holster corrects, pointing an accusatory finger at Ransom.

“I can see that.”

Ransom leans down, kisses Holster again, gentle and unassuming. Holster kisses back, and it’s a very familiar kind of post-sex kiss, the kind with so much behind it. _Thank you_ , and _You’re welcome_ , and _I hope to god this isn’t the last time_. Ransom tries to use his lips to answer, _I can’t believe it took this long_.

“You gonna unpause?” he asks when they finally break apart. Holster’s controller sits a few feet away and he glances over at it, making absolutely no effort to retrieve it.

“Dude, I think I won the Chel Challenge,” he says.

Ransom looks over sex-sleepy Holster, with his hair all wild and his eyes barely open, and he can’t keep himself from stealing another kiss. It’s almost too-familiar of a movement, like something that shouldn’t be mastered yet, but it is. That’s something they’re going to have to talk about later. Probably. Definitely. “Can we call it a tie, bro?”

Holster laughs. “Yeah, a tie. We’ll call it a tie.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> [find me on tumblr](http://stereokink.tumblr.com)


End file.
